


Tactile

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Finger Sucking, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is surprised to discover just how much he enjoys having his fingers in Carl's mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactile

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anonymous member of the fandot who not only gifted me a [wonderful fic](http://fractionallyfoxtrot.tumblr.com/post/78919962358/oh) but read my mind in regards to giving Martin a particular kink.

It started innocently enough.

It started with jam.

Martin pulled his hands away from the mess of sponge and cream and jam, frustrated at the appearance of another crack. He couldn’t imagine being more careful but apparently something about his touch was too rough, causing the sponge to crack even though he’d barely begun to roll the concoction together. He eased the shape back, wiping away the jam and cream that was leaking out the ends, and very, very carefully began to tuck the edge in and form the roll again.

He’d barely got the sponge to turn in on itself before he spotted another crack forming.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” he spit in frustration.

He took a step back, his hands tensing in the air; succumbing to the desire to strangle – although since a roll of sponge didn’t have a neck, Martin wasn’t sure if it would, technically, be strangling – the dessert would ruin the little progress he’d actually made. He flinched when a hand touched his shoulder, turning to see Carl’s concern at his agitated state.

“You okay?” Carl asked, his voice gentle without a hint of teasing.

“Fine,” Martin answered, wiping his hands on his front. He groaned when a belated thought reminded him that he wasn’t wearing an apron and he’d just wiped jam and cream all over his shirt. “Just terrific.”

“Okay,” Carl said, drawing the word out in a way that meant he knew Martin was _fine_ , not fine. He handed Martin a towel to ineffectually clean the mess from his shirt. “Do you need any-“

“The sponge keeps cracking!” Martin complained, whipping the towel down, flicking specks of jam and cream at both of them. “I rolled it up while it was still warm and I’ve been nothing but careful with it but it keeps cracking. How am I supposed to roll the whole thing if it keeps cracking?”

Carl turned to the troubling setup on the bench, taking Martin’s outburst in stride as he usually did when the impatience wasn’t directed at him. He pushed back the fraction of sponge Martin had managed to roll on his last attempt and poked lightly at one of the corners.

“You didn’t over bake it; that’s a good start,” he said, glancing back with a smile that did very little to ease Martin’s irritation. “It might be a little too much filling but it’ll probably be okay. If we just…”

Martin watched as Carl looked around the kitchen, pulling a roll of greaseproof paper from one of the cupboards and clearing a space next to the unrolled roll. He gave his hands a quick wash then lay a length of the paper on the bench and sprinkled it with the sugar Martin had sitting out with the other ingredients. He gently lifted the cookie sheet Martin had been working on and slid the jam-and-cream-covered sponge onto the sugar-sprinkled paper.

“Come,” he said, turning to Martin and taking his hand. “This might be easier.” They stood together at the bench while Carl nudged the sponge so its sides were parallel with the paper. “Would you like to lift or roll?”

“What?”

“One of us will lift the greaseproof paper while the other rolls the sponge over and presses it down.”

Martin looked down at the mess he’d made on his own. “Which is easier?”

There was a quick roll of Carl’s eyes and he said, “You roll.”

Martin knew that decision was contrary to his question. “But-“

“You wanted to do this,” Carl reminded him. “You roll.”

Carl helped Martin start it off, showing him where and how to tuck in the edge as he lifted the end of the greaseproof paper. Once the sponge had successfully rolled in on itself one time, Carl took the paper in both hands and pulled gently, centimeters at a time, easing the sponge forward while Martin encouraged its shape, pressing lightly to help the binding properties of jam and cream. The going was slow, Martin forcing Carl to wait at some points until he was satisfied with the curve of the forming roll, but the results were much better. The early cracks were completely hidden by the first rotations and, while jam and cream still leaked out the ends, the roll as a whole seemed much more stable.

By the time the last of the sponge came in contact with itself, they’d shifted from standing side by side to an awkward position where Carl was standing on his tiptoes with Martin wedged between him and the bench, the latter hunched over to be closer to the roll with a hand reaching around both sides of the greaseproof paper. Martin eased the roll forward a bit so it was sitting on the seam, smiling at how it held together.

“Is it done?” Carl asked.

“I think so,” he answered.

“Good.”

Carl let go of the greaseproof paper and bounced back a few steps. Martin straightened and paused to stretch before bringing out a plate to put the finished roll on. Carl appeared at his side again, wiping his hands on a new towel, and watched as Martin carefully rolled the roll off the paper and onto the plate.

“There,” he said, feeling pleased with the results... aside from the jam and cream dripping from the ends. He wiped a hand over each end, smoothing away any excess filling. “There,” he said again, holding up his messy hands. “Done.”

“Looks good,” Carl said with a smile.

“How did you know to do that?”

“I used to help my mum,” he answered, taking Martin’s hands and cleaning the jam and cream from them. “She had trouble rolling it by herself too and if I helped, she let me eat the leftover filling.” Martin shook his head at Carl’s childish grin. “Speaking of which…”

Carl held up Martin’s almost clean hands, dropping the left in favor of the right where a blob of jam was still stuck to Martin’s thumb. Before Martin knew what was happening, Carl brought his hand to his mouth and licked the jam from the pad of Martin’s thumb with the warm, flat width of his tongue. Martin stared as Carl smiled at the taste, his whole body standing at attention as if Carl had licked a very different part of him.

“That’s good,” Carl said, offering praise that Martin would’ve been interested in five seconds ago.

“Yeah,” he nodded, fairly certain they weren’t talking about the same thing.

Martin pulled his hands free from Carl’s grasp and grabbed him by the waist, pushing him back until Carl hit the adjacent bench. He touched a hand to Carl’s face and took his mouth just as his body hit Carl’s, pinning Carl to the bench. There was a muffled noise of confusion before Carl’s hands came up to Martin’s hair and he fell into the rhythm of the kiss, encouraged by the roll of Martin’s hips. Jam-smeared shirts and cream-flecked trousers were tugged at and lost as Martin replaced his mouth with his finger, groaning and grabbing at Carl as the digit slipped between Carl’s lips.

Neither of them could explain exactly why they were late when they showed up at Carolyn’s for dinner, Swiss roll in hand, an hour later than she’d specified.


End file.
